


Where the wild things are

by Pteropoda (SilentP)



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Contemplation, Escapism, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 08:10:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1737533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentP/pseuds/Pteropoda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Earth reminds him of Cybertron in the worst ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the wild things are

There are days when Hound just needs to get away.

No one ever seems to see it coming except him. When he requests a day off unannounced, with no partner and no destination but “away”, none of the Autobots know quite what to say, or what to do. That’s all right with him. He doesn’t need that from them. He just needs them to let him go. Today it is Prowl, who gives him a sharp look, but nods. “If you have no duties to perform, then it is your prerogative how you spend your time,” he says. “You will be expected to respond to any emergency communications, and send one of your own if you encounter any trouble.”

“Yes sir,” Hound says. He knows Prowl and the other officers would prefer if he would submit a planned route, or checked in at regular intervals, but they’ve all learned that it doesn’t work. Hound has tried to plan routes and check in, but time slips away from him even when he doesn’t mean it to.

He’s been told it’s out of character, and it is, he’ll admit that. He’s been the sociable, reliable mech for a very long time. He _likes_ the Autobots, his friends and allies, and most days he enjoys spending time with them. He believes in Optimus Prime and the Autobot cause. He believes that the Decepticons must be stopped, and he has to do his part to make that happen. It’s a lot of responsibility, a lot of pressure, but he was built solidly enough to take the strain.

It’s just that sometimes the walls of the Ark start pressing in on him, until all he sees is dull orange metal. So he starts going for more patrols or he volunteers to spend time with Spike and Carly as a chauffeur, driving them wherever they need to go. Sometimes that’s enough.

But not always, because sometimes the cities start to swallow him too. So he starts driving the highways instead. They’re open and empty, and the wind against his frame helps. But then he’ll pass by some roadkill, or see litter along the shoulder, and the world starts caving in again.

That’s when he goes to Ratchet, or Jazz, or Prime, and tells them he needs to go. It’s what brought him in front of Prowl’s desk today. Prowl is staring at a datapad like he’s trying to think of some form or regulation he can use to keep Hound here, but he doesn’t. “Alert me when you have returned,” he says instead. Hound nods, and takes his leave. He should probably tell his friends that he’s going out, but he doesn’t think he can stand another minute inside.

He doesn’t know how to explain to them that the home they all love so much has started to feel like a prison, so he doesn’t. He just drives.

He goes to the back roads, driving away from the telephone wires and street lamps and hunting out the dirt tracks that hardly anyone drives. Then he goes even further, completely off the path, switching modes where he must, driven by something in him that longs to be away from the machinations of sentient beings, human or Cybertronian.

Beachcomber understands it. Skyfire does too. Hound knows they get out when they can. It gets harder every year. The humans take and take, and it gets harder to find the places they have not begun to strip bare. It reminds him of a time when an entire planet was too small for him, and when he had begun to feel like even the universe would eventually lose this organic spontaneity.

Some days, Earth reminds him of Cybertron. And it scares him to the very core of his spark.

Eventually he finds a ledge on the side of a mountain and parks there to watch the sun set. There are cicadas buzzing in the forest below. A flock of sparrows appear, descending on the trees like a cloud, chirping to one another as they prepare to rest for the night. As the sun falls below the horizon and the temperature drops, the cicadas taper off, only to be replaced by the chirping of crickets. Hound turns off his optics and just listens.

Some time later, he’s jolted out of his listening by the sound of a plane passing by overhead. It’s late, he realizes as he checks his chronometer. He should be getting back to the Ark. He’s probably worried a lot of mechs, and Prowl will be waiting for him to report in.

Making his way down the mountain is difficult in the dark, but he goes slow and steady, and doesn’t get so much as a scratch. He only turns on his headlights when he makes it back to the main road. He doesn’t take detours or the long way around, and when the lights of the city appear in the distance, he doesn’t have to fight an urge to u-turn and leave, though he mourns the way the light pollution blocks out the stars.

He doesn’t expect to see anyone when he gets back to the Ark, as late as it is, but Prowl is at the entrance, reading from a datapad. Must have been notified by the perimeter alerts, Hound thinks as he pulls to a stop and transforms.

Prowl looks up from the datapad. “Trailbreaker informed me that you were not responding to comms.”

“Ah.” There had been a call, he remembers, early in the day. He had ignored it. “It wasn’t marked urgent. I’ll find him and apologize.”

“Hmm.” Prowl examines him for a moment, then turns and makes his way back into the Ark. “See that you do.”

And just like that, Prowl is gone, leaving him standing at the front of the Ark. No formal reprimand. No attempts to make him promise not to do this again. It’s just as well. That is a promise Hound can’t make. There will be another day when the Ark is a reminder of a dead planet. But for now, it’s good to be home.


End file.
